


Fake Velvet Curtains

by theleaveswant



Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Angst, Anonymous Sex, BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-02
Updated: 2011-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/theleaveswant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The important part is pretending they don't recognize each other."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fake Velvet Curtains

**Author's Note:**

> For Helens78's prompt (see Summary) at [duesouth_kink](http://duesouth-kink.dreamwidth.org/).

Sam's cheek scrapes brick through the faux-velvet material marking out the walls of the fuck room stall as Ed's gloved fists slam into his back once more. He grunts and gasps as Ed uncurls his fingers and slaps his way down the sides of Sam's torso, lighter of course over his kidneys than over his ribs and hipbones, then drags those comparatively cool leather fingertips down Sam's hot red skin. Ed leans in close behind him, breath wet on the back of Sam's neck, as he yanks Sam's briefs down around his thighs, and Sam can't help but wonder how they got here.

The first time it happened, Sam had already been coming to fetish nights at this club for several months without running into anyone from his daytime, professional life. That night things didn't get different until almost one; Sam had arrived early and started dancing up a storm as soon as he got there, shaking off the stress of the week and making eyes at a couple of different Leather daddies, trying to decide which one to approach, to ask to take him upstairs. He'd about settled on the guy with the Jamie Hyneman moustache and the Tom of Finland motorcycle cap when he bounced over to the rail at the edge of the dance floor to retrieve his water bottle and caught Ed watching over his shoulder in the grimy mirror.

Sam had whirled around, eyes wide, and just about dropped the bottle because it really was Ed standing by the club entrance staring at him as cold and level as if he was lining up a lethal solution. It wasn't until Ed raised his empty hands—unarmed, no threat—and started crossing the floor towards him, keeping his gaze on Sam and stepping around the other dancers like they weren't even there, that he registered that Ed wasn't in street clothes or SRU kit. Instead he was wearing, well, it was cut like a police uniform, except that as Ed passed under the flashing club lights Sam could see the dull gleam of leather, black with red trim, red stripes up the outsides of his pant legs. The shirt had short sleeves, showing off Ed's shapely forearms, but his hands were sheathed in short black gloves. He looked, if Sam were frank about it, like a walking wet dream.

Sam had swallowed hard when Ed stopped an arm's length away from him, his throat gone desert-dry like the sip of water he'd just taken was a sip of sand instead.

“What's your name?” Ed asked, and Sam blinked. There was a pressure in Ed's eyes then, the intensity of telling yourself that if you can only will it hard enough, someone else will pick up on whatever you're trying to project into their head. _Go with it,_ Sam imagined he heard, _I won't tell if you won't._

“Does it matter?” Sam had answered, grinning more cockily than he probably would have if he hadn't been stunned as fuck, trying to quell his own lingering terror at discovery.

“I guess not,” Ed said.

Sam's pretty certain that the next words out of his mouth were supposed to be 'Come here often?', which would have been embarrassing enough, except that what he actually said was worse.

“Come to play?”

Ed's eyes narrowed then and Sam was pretty sure he was going to turn and leave. Instead he nodded. “Okay.”

Ed had already taken three long strides towards the stairs before Sam could process that he meant 'right now'. At the top of the stairs Ed turned right, away from the open 'dungeon' and towards the more secluded sex-on-premises area, the space Sam's buddies from Vancouver called the Red Room.

“What do you like?” Ed asked after he ushered Sam into a dimly lit, curtained booth.

“We're actually doing this?” Sam asked, and Ed cocked an eyebrow. “I thought maybe you just wanted some privacy. Um . . .”

Sam's eyes flickered away from Ed's face and locked onto his gloves. They looked padded, weighted, mostly leather with velcro wrist-straps for support, the kind Metro Police issues its officers for 'disturbance control'. Ed noticed him watching and cracked his knuckles. Sam swallowed.

“I like to get beaten. I like thud and up close, punching and general rough body play.”

“Yeah?” Ed asked and Sam nodded. “You bruise easy?”

“Not really.”

“You mind if I mark you up a bit?”

“I want you to, I want the ache, but I share a change room at work.”

“Fair enough. You'll tell me if I start to cross a line?”

“I'll try if you will.”

“Turn around.”

The next month that he went back, Ed was there waiting for him. On that night they didn't even speak; Ed just inclined his head towards the stairs and Sam went, knowing Ed would follow. The third time Ed was lurking next to the stairs when he came in, back against the wall, dry-washing his sap-gloved hands.

Inside their booth on the end, every night is the same as the first, or near enough. Ed turns Sam to face the solid outer wall, arms in front of his chest to brace him, and starts on his shoulders and back, warming him up with slaps and pinches and rough kneading squeezes before he starts punching, dropping all his weight through his fist and into Sam. Once his back is good and tender but before it starts to bruise, Ed takes his attentions lower, baring Sam's ass and pounding it to hamburger. He goes a little rougher, here, less warm-up and less cautious about leaving marks. They've been lucky about that; usually the timing works out that the traces are faded enough, barely noticeable, by the time they go back to work, and the one time they weren't was late fall after a cold and rainy weekend and Sam was able to blame a patch of black ice. When Sam's grunting into the wall Ed turns him around and takes a few shots at his chest and belly, tensed to absorb the blow, making him grunt louder, and usually gives his nipples a few sharp twists before shoving him to his knees and grinding his crotch in Sam's face. He passes Sam a condom and holds on to his hair as Sam gets those pants open, drinking in the rich smell of the leather and of Ed's sweat, rolls the rubber on and goes to town. After he's shot his load Ed hauls Sam to his feet again and spins him to face the shabby plastic chair, stuffing his right glove into Sam's mouth to gag him as he reaches around his body to jerk him off. Then they stand in each other's arms, still and silent, long enough that their sweat starts to cool, before Ed sends Sam out of the booth to wait while he mops the place up. Their ritual concludes with Ed thanking Sam, shaking his hand, and exiting the club.

It's the same every time, pretty much, but Sam doesn't mind that. It's good. He's able both to anticipate what comes next and to concentrate on enjoying what's happening now. No, what bothers Sam isn't the repetition; it's the formality. It's been months and they're still acting like strangers here, only it's worse than that because except for that first time there hasn't been any make-believe about it, no small-talk, hardly any talk at all. They just do their business and leave. Sam hasn't played with anyone else since this weird arrangement started, and he hasn't seen Ed play with anyone either, at least not at this club, but they've never talked about whether keeping this appointment makes them any kind of partners. It doesn't seem to have changed their relationship at work at all, not in any way Sam wants to admit; Ed focuses on the task at hand, makes the tough calls, and chews Sam out when he screws up, and Sam obeys as closely as he ever did (he thinks). At work Ed cracks jokes and laughs at other people's. Here his face stays neutral or it twists into a snarl, but he never, ever laughs.

At first Sam liked playing this game with Ed, liked having that idea of what he was capable of from watching him in the gym and in the field and liked the secret, liked the game of recognizing-not-recognizing that they play in this hidden, alternative world. Now he's not sure he can handle holding the two realities apart.

“I like you better when you smile,” Sam says, forehead on the wall, when Ed steps in behind him with his gloves caressing his bare ass. Ed's hands withdraw and Sam can feel the booth go cold.

“I didn't mean—” he says, turning around quickly, but Ed is already gone, the wine-coloured curtain falling closed behind him.

Sam pulls his pants back on and runs out after him, catching his arm at the bottom of the stairs. He opens his mouth to speak but can't seem to summon the words. He tries for a kiss instead but Ed just shrugs him off.

“I can't,” Ed says, and leaves him there alone, surrounded by flashing lights and jostling leather-clad dancers.


End file.
